


Stars

by Mememachine129



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coffee Shop, Fate, Implied past abusive relationship, M/M, Meeting Again, Multi, Richie is famous-ish, The other losers are mentioned at the very end, They just meet again and fall in love okay?, forgetting each other, i dont know how to explain this, my summaries are shit, referanced cannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 03:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mememachine129/pseuds/Mememachine129
Summary: Where Richie and Eddie become Richie, Eddie, and Stan(Fuck you Stephen, my boys are living)





	Stars

 

Before the Losers Club ever had its name, there was _Richie and Eddie_. Two halves of a shattered hole. The two picked each other up piece by piece, before falling into one another in a fit of giggles caused by a stupid action that, in the long run, didn't matter. They’d pick themselves up anyway and start over, sending each other smiles from across the room. They were mixed up, their personalities conflicting and minds on different ideals. One with a parent who cared too much and the other too little.

They were supposed to balance each other out; their faults drifting away in the storm of the other, too caught up in their love to notice the imperfections. Jagged roads scraped clean for the prance of two star-crossed lovers. Shooting through the sky so fast they'd be gone before the glass shattered.

The problem with stars, though, is that they have a tendency to explode.

The star-crossed lovers blew up, quite literally, in each other's faces nearly every day. The burn of the other outshining any reason, the thought of winning driving their actions astray. Insults thrown back and forth, some playful and others filled with spite. The two played a game, chasing each other through the cosmos in a furious blaze of destruction. They didn't care who they hurt, only about what the other thought.

Planets burned in a blaze of fire when they passed, lives lost to the uncontrolled souls. It seemed, no matter how hot they grew, they could never feel the burn. They could only shout and laugh, dance and punch, _kill_ and _live_.

After the Losers Club got its name, _Richie and Eddie_ became _Richie, Eddie, and Stan_.

Alone, Stan was broken. A fragment of a planet long burned away. He was freezing, covering objects in a depressing frost that he always seemed to carry. He craved order, the very thought of chaos sending him spiraling. A world without order, he reasoned, would cease to exist. The discipline he forced created a new world, one that he ruled.

Though, all it really seemed to do was drive others away.

He was used to being alone, used to longing stares and quiet lunches. His pride kept him stuck to the cold wood of the bench and away from the joyful laughter of the surrounding children. Apparently, that was fine. But, one cloudy day, heated shouts drove his mind into the blazing fire of Richie and Eddie.

Stan was the cold comet that crashed into the stars, freezing their blaze and softening their looks. He became the soft edge, ridged on his own but smoothing the destruction of the lovers. His pleasant voice and patient smiles froze the flames, making them flicker into something totally new. Something _beautiful_.

Lives settled, fires burned out, and Richie and Eddie opened their eye to their flames.

The flames grew unsettling, what was previously their spark became their aching for more. They wanted the destruction, the chaos, because that was _safe_. They wanted their spark, their blaze, back.

When Stan realized he was a star, the Losers Club was a name written in the cosmos. Black holes called their names and planets worshiped their presence. They were loved, but unknown. They’d done something extraordinary, something so terrifying that writing it down could cause the utter destruction to the fabrics of time. They saved the world.

After this, though, the Losers fell. They became voids, sucking up depression and fear, encasing it into their souls. No one was a star because no one believed in them anymore. The world was quiet.

No one called their name, not the fear, not the Gods, and not each other. No one said a word. No one sent a call.

Well, Stanley got a call.

Maybe it was fate, stepping into the dinner on that October day. With neat ringlets tousled from the wind and a long button up that ended at his mid-thy, the cold, calculating comet that was Stanley Uris, crashed.

The dinner was warm, the constant heat from the stoves making the air flicker. Soft whispers replaced the wind with an eerie echo. He sat in corner next to a window, with an auburn table and ripped red seats providing the fallen with a soft landing. The setting sun cast a ray of pinks through the window, lighting up his hazel eyes into a sky blue. He smiled, shutting his lids and letting the sparks hit his skin like small needles in a patch of tattered cloth.

The pink hues left, the cold feeling of shadows taking over. Stan peaked his eyes open, expecting the dark streets and fluorescent bulbs around him to embrace his tired body. Instead he found a short, muscular boy with eyes like a dear.

Stan raised a perfectly manicured blond brow, as if daring the boy to move from his spot frozen to the concrete. He watched with amusement as the stranger fumbled, tripping over his too-big boots and stumbling into the dinner with a groan. He looked around, wide dear eyes searching for the cold and calculating hazel. They found their mark, a goofy smile growing on his face at the sight.

“Stan?”

The comet turned, the burned husk of a star staring back at him. He recognized it immediately, the scorches not hiding the familiar flicker. He carried himself the same, like every second of life was a second longer of death. Stan honestly couldn't tell who the small boy had become. The comet could see smudges of dirt on his scarf, but his hands were almost shining. His hair still had the fluff that carried the weight if the world, but now it fell straighter, hours of work sticking it to the man's forehead.

“Holy shit.” Stan breathed out, eyes wide and mouth agape. The two stared at each other, worlds away in mind but footsteps in heart. They hadn't seen each other in a decade. Ten years of getting older. Of growing up. He's taller, Stan noticed, and buffer; the kid looks like he could bench press a bus.

The diner faded, the whispers of patrons drifting into the blackened cosmos. The two men became boys when their eyes met, filled with unchecked emotions and confusing thoughts. He was a star, so bright no one could look away. Stan was a comet, the blanket of support that fixed every mess before it happened.

Now, now they were husks, shattered with lies and hurt of a decade without each other. They wanted to hug, to cry, to scream in _agony_ about how much they needed the other.

Instead, they just smiled.

“Good to see you, Eddie. Wanna sit?”

Stanley couldn't remember the exact day he stopped being a comet. When he stopped putting out fires and started to control his own. He figured it was an around half a year in, back when he didn't know where things were going. Back then Eddie and Stan just met for coffee every couple of weeks, talking about jobs and college (both boy's we're getting their PhD’s at 23). They sometimes remembered the losers club, their banter and weird games.

“You remember that time we built an _entire_ damn in a _week_?”

Stan would nod, chuckling and sharing a look of exasperation, “Yes! God, my dad fucking _killed_ me for missing time in the temple, but it was totally worth it to see the look on. . . “

Stan would stop, biting his lip as he searched for the name. He always had trouble with the names. It was like something was blocking him from seeing all the details, like a book with half the words blurred out. Stan could describe the surroundings perfectly, recite the exact rhythm of their feet as they worked, push the memory to the back and still find it like sorting through a binder.

But, no matter how hard he squeezed his brain, he couldn't remember _who_ was there. The faces and names were lost, but the feeling never was. It was on the tip of his tongue, every time. Luckily, he had Eddie.

“Ben. Ben Hanscom.”

Eddie, unlike Stan, could recite the names like poetry. The names never hid, sparkling in the confines of a locked box, almost screaming _were here! Don’t forget us!_ He could describe everyone to the greatest detail that Stan could _almost_ see them. Eddie had trouble with other things, though, like where they were and why they were there. Stan could help with the first one, recounting their adventures piece by piece ( _with eddie’s help_ ) until they nearly had a full picture. They searched for the missing piece, shaking the bolted chest until their heads hurt.

It seemed neither of them could find it.

So many questions remained: Why had they done this? Yes, it was so Ben could smile, but who was Ben? Why did he love bridges so much? Why wasn't he around to build it with them?

So many questions, all without answers. Who knows how they'll ever get those

Stan smiled, looking toward the road fondly.

“Yeah, Richie used to call him Haystack, right?”

That was the funniest thing, at least to Stan. He couldn't remember anyone, hell, he barely remembered Eddie until he stepped into that coffee shop. But Richie, Richie was always there. Maybe just a reminder to fuck up every once in a while. That ‘Nothing has to be perfect all the time, Stanny boy!’

Eddie remembered him fondly, recounting how goofy the boy looked with his square-frame glasses and coke bottle lenses. _His freckles were stars_ , Eddie would say, looking toward his drink wistfully, _they danced across his face like ballerinas. His skin was so pale, like a fucking zebra with that wild hair. He insisted on wearing the cheapest Hawaiian shirts I've ever fucking seen. I wish you could remember, Stan! He always picked to weirdest colors: green with pineapples or-or lilac petals with yellow trim!_

“The boy was insane,” Stan would chuckle, the pictures in his head so vivid he nearly reached out to touch it. They were right there, large frames and shaggy raven hair. The shirt- oh Jesus, bright fire truck red! Navy palm trees on the chest and a rainbow stitched onto the sleeve. God, he had never seen something so realistic in his mind.

It took Stan two days to realize that it wasn't in his mind.

The husk was burned, nearly worse than Eddie, but alike in many ways. While Eddie’s carried a glossiness that kept it shiny, Richie was dim. As if, after he’d burned out, he hadn't noticed. Or maybe he had, he just didn't care enough to fix it.

The man had been shot through the galaxy, the explosion of fear that separated the losers a decade before sending him to the streets of New York. There, he was shattered, broken on an alley wall. No one spared him a glance, his young face too covered in grime and dirt to seem any different than the wall behind him. His spark had diminished, the pieces there, but irreparable. He had sat in that ally for a long time, wallowing in grief and self-pity. He _wanted_ someone. He wanted someone so badly, but he couldn't remember _who_.

It took ten long years to find his place again, this time alone in his destruction. He was a radio host, spewing insults and banter on the regular with someone he never really cared about. He lived on a loop; wake up, go to work, go to sleep. On those rare days he stopped to eat, the Broken Tree, a coffee shop about a block from the station, became his home. Yeah, it was hipster as shit and the emos in the back gave him dirty looks when he came in after his shift, but they made the best fucking lattes in the whole city. And Richie sure as hell needed a latte.

The day was warm. It was a distinct kind of warm, like it wasn't supposed to be but a cloud called in sick last minute and they just let it happen. The universe- well, the universe was shifting. Gears had snapped and workers were done. They’d fucked up once before, half a year before, by letting that husk of a star look up from that letter. The letter that told him his girlfriend of two years wanted him to choose: Her, or school.

He was supposed to walk home, get splashed by a speeding semi, and call Myra from a payphone, crying out an apology between sobs. He was supposed to go “home”, giving up his career for the woman who was more controlling than his late mother. He was supposed to nod along for the rest of his short life, until an old friend would call him for help.

But that changed when Eddie turned the wrong corner. They had slipped, and he had found Stan. He had found a reason to stay.

God, they didn't even know why Stan was fucking _there_. He was supposed to be in a college in Mississippi, meeting his future wife in a planning class. Instead, he was in the middle of New York, alone. All because someone had slipped a packet for NYU into his school notes by accident.

By this time, the workers were in chaos. People who were supposed to meet finding themselves alone, and people who weren't even supposed to _remember_ each other talking in a coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon.

So, when Richie walked into that shop that Saturday, no one batted an eyes. They were bound to find each other eventually.

Yeah, Stan figured that on that Saturday, in New York City, in a hipster coffee shop filled with teens with too much time on their hands, he’d stopped being a comet. His fires burned, igniting the people who started them in a familiar blaze.

“Hey, watch where you're fucking going, hippie!”

Stan stuttered back, feeling hands behind him settling him from the sharp force. He looked up, seeing a firetruck red exit the store with haste. He was stunned for a second, the voice of a concerned Eddie not reaching his ears.

“Richie. . .”

Eddie quirked his eyebrow, “Stan, what are you-”

“Richie!” Eddie jumped at the shout, letting go of his hold on the taller boy's shoulder just as he raced out the glass doors. He watched for a moment, blinking rapidly, before shouting after him

Stan didn't hear Eddie’s cry, to focused on the firetruck red. Holy shit. It's him. It's fucking him!

“Richie Tozier, I swear to God! Turn the fuck around, you tool!”

The words were rude, but the exasperated tone held only fondness. His eyes were wide, and a tiny smile pinched Stan’s cheeks.

The man turned, eyes ugly with anger. His eyebrow raised, already ready to tell off the heckler, “Look, I don't-”

 

_Boom_

 

“Stan, why the hell did you run off so. . .”

 

_Boom_

 

The cosmos shattered. The structure of fate winded so thin that the strands only acted as tiny knives for the universe. Everything that was anything stopped, transfixed on the three souls of Earth. Something was happening, something that fate had forgone years ago. Something that, by the laws of nature, was impossible.

 

**_BOOM_ **

 

A star was coming back.

 

A process that took millions upon billions of years to complete happened in seconds. Neurons collapsed, atoms exploding into a blinding shine of hope. Two husks, burned down to their core, _sparkled_. Energy burned around the two, centers of gravity failing at the sight of the rebirth of a love so strong that the universe had to take it away.

The fire wailed, the flames flickering the souls too brightly. They hadn't been lit in so long that even just the smallest spark hit them like a bullet. It burned, much smaller than it had been almost ten years before, but it was _there_. It was there and it was blazing.

Two stars, to halves of a whole, two star-crossed lovers, burned again. Though, they were no longer immune to the blaze. The cinders licked at their skin, sending their soul buckets of pain. Rocket-sized sparks hit them, sending them crashing to their knees.

Oh, it _hurt_. Everything fucking _hurt_. All the places they'd worked so hard to ignore, to numb, came back in a second. Years of love, of _life_. Coming back to them in an instant. And with the pain came the sorrows. Years of loss, of pain. The bodies howled, the emotions unexpected and unwelcome. They thought they knew themselves, but this? This was unknown.

And then, with calming smile and a pleasant voice, it was sent away. The comet- no, the _star_ hushed the two, enveloping them into a hug that none expected, but all wanted. He cradled them, hushing their wails and whispering sweet nothings into burning ears. He cooled them.

Richie clutched the two closer, feeling his glasses scrunch uncomfortably into his face. He wanted to cry, _fuck_ he wanted to, but Eddie was already crying and if he started crying then Stan would start crying and then _surely_ none of them would get home. He refused to breath, partly because his nose was shoved dangerously close to Stan’s armpit ( _not like the boy would smell, or have any hair to find)_ , but because it would make it all real. And no, this wasn't real, he assured himself, because then that would mean he was in the arms of the only people he's ever loved. No, this was a dream. A fucked up dream. In a second he would wake up, bawling his heart out because he fucking _wanted_ this to be real.

As subtle as he could, he reached the hand around Eddie slightly lower, so his other hand could give it a small pinch.

He felt Stan’s chuckle in his left ear.

“Don't worry, Rich,” His calming attitude broke for a second, eyes becoming watery as he send Richie a soft smile, “I'm not a dream. _We're_ not a dream. We're real.”

Richie smiled, fisting the soft fabric on Stan’s back. His left hand found its place on Eddie Spaghetti’s hip. The fabrics were a lifeline, their presence dragging the real world and dream land into one dimension.

A soft whimper left Eddie’s lips, muffled by Stan’s polo, but like a gunshot to the two's hears. They clutched each other closer, Stan letting his head fall in between Eddie and Richie's intertwined curls. He breathed in, the intertwined sent of the three encased in his mind. A feeling took over him, then, a feeling of pure protectiveness. He wanted these two to stay safe in his arms forever, the blackened world too scared by their light to attack. He trusted these boys, and they trusted him.

Eddie watched his best friends, _his boys_ , fall back into themselves. He had witnessed the best and the worst of the two. He rubbed soft circles into his hair as they cried, and they had done the same for him. He had seen them dance to music created in their minds, laughing so hard tears trailed down pale cheeks. He had watched them grow, glowing in the pure blaze of contained chaos. Eyes wild and lips swollen, he saw their flames dance together in a blistering _kiss_.

He didn't remember how it really happened, somewhere in between the daily talks and lame jokes. It was so natural, falling against each other in a comforting embrace. Richie Tozier, ever the story teller, always had something to say. Stan Uris, the boy who sat in the forest for hours, listening to bird calls with a soft smile. They were so fucking perfect

For while, Eddie wasn't sure how he belonged.

Eddie Kaspbrak, the boy who knew more diseases than people. Who used to cry when someone would cough, worried he’d catch AIDS and die. Who spent most conversations arguing a point that he didn't even know. He was a stranger in the perfection of Stan and Richie. He wished that they had found each other first, just so Eddie wouldn't feel this bad whenever they were together.

But Eddie, poor Eddie, couldn't see the big picture. He was too busy looking at the floor to see Richie looking at him with fondness, or hear the way Stan stuttered when Eddie bit his lip. It didn't matter how long Richie stared at Stan, because he’d always look back at Eddie. Because _look_ at these boys.

A year in, the stars were bright again. Though confusion still clouded their senses, the brushing touch of another slowly cleared away the fog. The Broken Branch welcomed the three with open arms, the hipsters no longer glaring and the coffee was, somehow, even better.

It was sunny today, so the trio had camped out in the shaded patio. It was around 10 am, so the shop was a bit more mellow than usual. They were alone, a tall, wood fence blocking them from any nearby traffic. Stan had been describing a story for Eddie and Richie, detailed, as usual. The two were listening intently, letting their mouths fall shut to listen to the pleasant tones of the Bird boy.

“The sun was so bright then, twinkling against the navy water. Little splashes from fish were in the deeper parts, right near the cliff side, but we stuck to the shore. The surrounding were hues of brown and gray, bits of sand and dirt from the trials making the ground twinkle against the sun's rays. Then, B-”

Stan coughed suddenly, clutching his head and the table in one swift motion. Richie and Eddie were on him in an instant, trying to figure out what was wrong. Richie went to grab Stan’s hand, but Eddie clutched his wrist before he could. No touching, he reminded softly, not without washing your hands.

Richie nodded resting his hand on the table instead.

Stan grasped his ringlets in a tight fist, the sharp punch in his head shooting splinters of pain across his body. He tried to think, to remember what he was talking about. No, _who_ he was talking about.

Another stab of pain.

“Fucking Christ,” he muttered leaning into the hard surface dejectedly. The pain died down, just sharp pokes instead of the blinding knives moments before. He breathed in a bated breath, blinking rapidly, “It's never been that bad before.

“Stan?”

He looked up, slightly startled. He wasn't at home trying to pull up a memory without needing his friends. No, he was here. In that stupid fucking coffee shop with its bitter hot chocolate. He blinked again, reaching Eddie and Richie’s fearful eyes.

“Stanny, what the fuck was that?” Richie’s voice carried a light tone, but the slight wobble told Stan the truth; he had scared his boys.

Stan sighed, brushing some ringlets back. He shooed the boys back into their seats, tired of seeing their worried eyes, “It's nothing, guys.” he tried to shrug nonchalantly, but it looked jagged and unpracticed, “It happens whenever I think about someone from D-” another groan, “Where we're from.”

Richie raised an eyebrow, looking between the two skeptically, “You mean Derry, Maine?” He looked at Eddie and Stan’s slacked jaws apprehensively, “Seriously? I know our childhood was kind of lame, sept’ for that fucked up summer in eighth grade, but how the hell do you forget the fucking town! Next thing I know you'll be telling me you don't remember Bevvie.”

More slacked jaws.

Richie actually scoffed this time, looking positively offended, “You forgot Beverly! How could you forget Bev! She was such a spark! With those fiery locks and a mouth meeting our bullcrap with a shit ton of retorts. The girl could fight, man! Like, one time when Bowers broke my glasses-”

And Richie’s mouth was running, describing a girl that, once upon a time, was their best friend. With every new detail, a piece of the fog cleared. Beverly Marsh; the girl who moved away a few weeks before the incident. They had all been so certain then that they'd be together forever. But then something happened, and their home of Derry was gone.

Eddie stared at Richie as he spoke, the boy's familiar coke bottle glasses crooked and shaking with the force of Richie's spastic movements. With every word the young boy spoke, a shot toward the wall of unknown was blasted, crumbling the resolve. Brick fell onto brick, scattering across the plane of thought silently. Slowly, a place came into few, a group standing, hand in hand. Slowly, they all smiled, their faces becoming clearer.

“Richie,” Eyes wide and lip quivering, Eddie interrupted the tangent. He had his coffee in a death grip, hoping to stop his hands from shaking. Glancing up, his eyes found Stan’s hazel. From his wild eyes and swollen lip, Eddie felt an air of reassurance hit him. He wasn't alone. Finally meeting Richie’s confused brown, Eddie let out a stunned chuckle, “You're the missing piece.”

He was met with silence.

Stan raised his brow, itching his nose as he looked between the two. Richie's mouth laid open, as if he just forgot to close it after being interrupted.

Eddie looked between the two, smiling, “Seriously, just, think about it!” his eyebrows were raised, knee bouncing in excitement, “Stan,” he turned to the boy, “You can't tell me you didn't feel that. Like, like the- God, like the fucking-fucking-”

“Like the fog was clearing.” It came out quietly, almost unheard over the nearby rushing traffic.

Eddie removed his eyes from his coffee, looking over at Richie. His hands lowered themselves from the air, settling on his lap contently. A soft smile pinched his cheek.

“Yeah. . .”

All was quiet, all eyes on the raven haired trashmouth. They were still, the new information inching its way into their cleared brains. The fog was lifted, the sun shining across the plane. Grass gleamed. Children smiled. Blood was shed. All was right.

“Eddie,”

Eddie looked over, the blown hazel eyes of his best friend meeting his own. The man's hands shook, nose scrunched up in a way that was, undeniably, adorable.

“You're a fucking genius!”

Soft lips crashed into his own. Star on star. Teeth on teeth. Blaze on blaze. Eyes shut.

Stan’s lips, God, Stan’s lips were heavenly. They fell against his own gracefully, pillows against his own bow of jagged inexperience. Each movement was precise, as if it had been imagined millions upon millions of times. His motorized hand found Stan’s neck, pulling him closer naturally. Curls of blond hair wove around his fingertips, molding themselves into an intoxicating memory. Eddie wished for a second his eyes weren't shut, just so he could memorize Stan’s face. But no way he was going to be the weirdo who kisses with his eyes open.

Eddie pulled away with a soft smack, lips open in parted shock. A sharp inhale hit him, filling his lungs with air he didn't even know he needed. When had he stopped breathing?

He opened his eyes, blinking slowly. His brown eyes, blown so wide his face seemed to mold around it, searched the coffee shop. As if, for those twenty seconds of pure ecstasy had destroyed every memory of where he was. The brown found Stan’s lips. The pink tissue was swollen, but for a reason other than Stan’s lip-chewing habit. Eddie’s lips closed, gulping at the thought.

“ _Fuck_.”

Eddie, though still in a haze, instinctively followed the moan. Beside him, his raven haired friend looked positively wreaked. His eyes were lidded, large hands gripping the edge of the table desperately. Eddie gulped again, brain still not caught up to figure out what else to do.

“Christ, Trashmouth,” the Jewish man's ringlets bounced as he chuckled, “If I knew doing that would shut you up, I’d have done it ages ago.”

Richie breathed out a laugh, quirking an eyebrow thoughtfully, “Then why don't you give me a ride on the old Stanley Express?”

Stan rolled his eyes, ignoring the boy's smirk. Reaching over Eddie in their weird, three seater corner table, he grabbed the collar of Richie’s Hawaiian shirt. Tugging him forcefully, two lips met over the asthmatic boy.

Eddie stopped breathing all over again.

Stan and Richie kissing- that was a sight. Stan was slow, just as calculating as he’d been with Eddie moments before, but daring in a way that only Richie brought out. Richie was brave, clutching Stan’s neck in a way that looked almost primal. But he wasn't careless; Eddie could see how he delicately placed his hand on Stan’s shoulder, careful not to wrinkle the steamed fabric.

Stan’s long fingers carded through Richie’s unruly hair, clutching it like a life-line. Eddie watched him pull on the curls, opening his mouth in shock as Richie let out a soft moan. It seemed Stan was surprised too, opening his eyes and mouth in to gape at the boy in front of him. Richie didn't let him pull away, though, just letting a soft flush accompany his cheek as he flicked out his tongue.

Eddie gulped as Stan let out a breathy moan. He could almost feel the air in between the two get hotter, him joined into the mess. He really regretted sitting in the middle, as the two were practically on top of him. He didn't want any problems to befall him while in this position.

God, what was he thinking! What were they doing? What the fuck was even going on?!

One of his tanned hands found his cheek, sending him a simple reminder that popping a boner while his two best friends were making out over him was a definite no-no.

Well, he’d never thought _that_ before. What the fuck.

Richie and Stan finally pulled away, a line of spit connecting their flushed lips. In any other situation, Eddie would've gagged. But he oddly didn't mind it. He might've been a bit jealous, but there was no way he’d _ever_ admit that.

The two boy's blinked, the haze that had taken them moments before fading away. Richie licked his lips, breaking the spit trail. Stan grimaced, grabbing a napkin from his pocket and wiping his lips. He smiled, though, Eddie could see his deep dimples pull his cheeks.

Richie let out a chuckle, though it held a fond nature, “So that's what dear Patty meant when she said he kisses like a firework display’! I thought it just meant it fell flat, not lit up the damn sky!”

Stan laughed nervously, both embarrassed at the mention of his ex and at Richie’s comment. He tucking his head into Richie’s shoulder shyly. Richie traced his cheek kindly, kissing it lovingly.

Eddie let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, his fingers resting on his open lips as he stared blankly ahead. It apparently broke Stan and Richie out of their trance, the two looking over at the winded boy. Stan bit his lip, trying to hide his smile. Eddie looked fucking _messy._

“Sorry, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie started, leaning away from Stan and closer to the wide eyed brunette, “I can't leave your flushed face all alone.”

“Wait,” Eddie held up a hand, blinking a couple times before looking up. Stan and Richie looked back at him, the later looking slightly put-out, “Can we talk about this?”

Richie chuckled, though it held an uneven quality, “Well that’d take us outa’ the mood, Spaghetti.”

Stan hit his chest, shaking his head with a frown. _Beep beep, Rich_. Richie nodded, tapping out a rhythmic beat on the tile. Stan looked back at Eddie, a soft smile back on his cheeks, “Sure, Eddie. Let's go back to my place.”

Richie let out a belted laugh, grabbing his latte and hopping out of the seat, “At least buy me a drink first, Staniel!”

Stan rolled his eyes, grabbing his book bag and Eddie’s hot chocolate in one swift movement, “That's not what your mom said last night.” He smiled to himself, memorizing Richie’s belted chords and Eddie’s small giggles.

And so they went, three stars so different in character one could wonder how they ever met. Once crisp bodies now thrived with one another, sharing a blaze that lit up galaxies. Alone, they were scared. But together? Together, they were _worshiped_.

Maybe this was what fate should've allowed in the first place; letting three boys, all destined for death, fall into each other's arms. To let them love each other in a way destiny wouldn't allow. The world was pleasant - burning with the intertwined blaze of three stars. Two once husks, burned to a crisp by their own love. One once a comet, crashing into others and destroying itself in an attempt to feel a fire others carried so easily. Together, they were reborn.

Together, they created the impossible.

 

Now, they just had to make sure their friends burned with them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is way longer than I anticipated. I'll have a cast out soon! 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @streddiesworld for updates


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